


Who says that Murder's not an Art?

by DarkFairytale



Series: Mentor Tormentor [5]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Murder, Murder Husbands, Possessive Behavior, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Post-Season/Series 03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-08
Updated: 2016-09-22
Packaged: 2018-08-13 22:06:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 18,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7987870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkFairytale/pseuds/DarkFairytale
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It has been months since Jack Crawford and his latest protégé, Clarice Starling, have had any new leads on the <i>Lecter and Graham Case</i>.</p><p>That is until a dead body that is believed to be Will Graham is found in Italy, at the same time that another body is found hours away, displayed in a way that is clearly Will Graham's design.</p><p>[Can be read as a standalone, or as a part of the Mentor Tormentor series].</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [谁说谋杀非艺术？](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9862484) by [RalitoEnSalaa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RalitoEnSalaa/pseuds/RalitoEnSalaa)



> Title taken from the song 'Roxie' from Chicago, because I love that line, and as far as Hannibal Lecter is concerned, murder is most definitely an art.
> 
> Part of this story is set in Italy. I have only been to Italy a couple of times, and have never visited the places mentioned. Therefore I apologise if I have made mistakes regarding any form of setting/police jargon. I plead ignorance, and ask that y'all just pretend that I know what I'm talking about ;) This story is not beta read, so any mistakes are mine, as per.

  _SEPTEMBER 5 th_

 

Of all the phone calls Clarice Starling could have received on that September morning, itwas the very last thing she would have expected.

Finally, after months and months without, there was a new lead on Will Graham.

Or rather, news, about Will Graham.

She ended the call, speechless with disbelief. The news had completely and utterly shocked her. It was not how she had imagined Will Graham’s story to go, and she had become an expert in Will Graham’s story, despite never actually having met the man.

She knew people who did know him, though. People who needed to hear this news.

The desk before her was organised; tidy and everything in its place, so she located her file on the _Lecter and Graham Case_ immediately; the file that she had rifled through the most, but had been adding to less often of late. She opened it and flicked through the contents, not that she really needed to re-familiarise herself with the details, she knew it all off by heart. She had had both paper records and first hand accounts of the case. She worked for FBI Special Agent Jack Crawford, head of the Behavioural Science Unit, and often crossed paths with Jimmy Price and Brian Zeller during investigations at crime scenes. She had had encounters with both Freddie Lounds and Frederick Chilton, both infamous to the FBI and in the _Lecter and Graham Case_.

Clarice was the only person so thoroughly involved in the current  _Lecter and Graham Case_ that had never met either of them, or been there when it had all taken place. And maybe that was the reason why she was so intrigued by it, whilst the others were wearied by it, and did not like to discuss it. Freddie Lounds still liked to discuss it, and Frederick Chilton would talk of little else when he was in sight of Jack Crawford (and who could blame the man; the severe scarring he had from bullets and flames and teeth would be enough to make anyone bitter), but her colleagues did not discuss it. Maybe because theyhad been too late to see Graham’s descent, or were incapable of stopping it.

It had been four years since Hannibal Lecter and Will Graham had disappeared without a trace from the clifftop, leaving the body of Francis Dolarhyde - also known as the Tooth Fairy or the Great Red Dragon - behind. Both Hannibal Lecter and Will Graham’s blood had been found at the crime scene, and quite extensive amounts, but the trail stopped there. There were a many number of theories that were thrown around and investigated at the time, but as far as Jack Crawford had been concerned, they had both gone over the cliff. Clarice had still been a student in the FBI Academy at the time, but she remembered the questions that were raised in the department, and around her fellow students. Most believed that the two men would never have been able to survive the fall and the subsequent shock of the cold and rough sea, and then a climb out, with the injuries they must have had. But she had already studied the case of Hannibal Lecter, and he hadn’t sounded like the kind of man that would be so easily beaten. And to be honest, Will Graham hadn’t sounded like that kind of man, either. But there had been no evidence to suggest that they had survived. No report of sighting, no bodies (either their own or new victims), no traceable phone, internet or credit card usage, no place of residence, no registered vehicle.  No idea of where they could have gone.

Molly and Wally Graham had been told not to hope for a miracle. Will Graham was missing and presumed dead. If the sea hadn’t taken him, there was a high chance that Hannibal Lecter had.

Freddie Lounds had had her theories; they were in Europe, she had believed most adamantly. And to be fair to her, they could have been. They could have been half the world away and the agents working on the case would not have had the slightest clue.

It turned out, in the end, that Hannibal Lecter and Will Graham had not travelled that far away at all.

Six months after Clarice had graduated from the FBI Academy and had been recruited by Jack Crawford, Freddie Lounds had discovered via a newspaper article sent to her by a reader of TattleCrime, that Will Graham and Hannibal Lecter were very much alive. And not only were they alive, they were in West Virginia.

A photograph had been published in a local newspaper of an event at an Opera House. The photograph had been of a middle-aged couple, but in the background had stood Hannibal Lecter and Will Graham. It had appeared terribly sloppy of them at first glance, until Clarice had understood that it was purposeful sloppiness. She had studied the accounts of Lecter’s manipulative nature enough to know that everything he did was carefully planned. He would have known that the photograph had been taken, even if Graham hadn’t. Jack had thought the same.

Their suspicions had been proved when they had tracked down the house of a ‘Karl and Mark Andersen’. They had not found Lecter and Graham, the pair had already been long gone, but they had found a body in the garden. Clarice had been there to see it. It had been her first Lecter (and Graham) body, displayed like the crime scenes of the Chesapeake Ripper, like the ones Graham had first been brought in by Jack to investigate. It had been disturbing, and Clarice had watched Jack age another couple of years as he had looked at it, silent and lost in memories, his eyes glazed. Price and Zeller had been just as silent and despondent as they had ID’d the woman whose body it was.

The body had been stood up in the garden, its lungs missing, and a note had been tucked inside the incision, that read ‘ _the sea was harsh but we held our breath’,_ in reference to their brush with death with Dolarhyde and the sea. The woman’s arms were lifted, and holding a camera, which was pointed towards two stone figurines that were standing intimately close together on the immaculately neat lawn. It was an obvious admission that the pair had been aware of the photograph of them in the paper, and further supported the theory that they had been photographed on purpose, with the intention of being caught on film, with the intention of starting the chase afresh, before using it as a reason to move on to pastures new. It was Hannibal Lecter positioning pieces on the board ready for a new game to play with the FBI, but now he had Will Graham as a partner, rather than an opponent.

If Jack had been haunted by the old memories dragged up by the crime scene in the garden, the feeling must have tripled when they found the letter addressed to Jack, lying on the dining table.

It had been written in Hannibal Lecter’s hand. Clarice had recognised it from reading Lecter’s surviving psychiatric notes. Jack Crawford was familiar with his once-friend’s hand, that had even penned Jack a letter when his wife had passed away (it had been added to the case evidence by Crawford, despite it being so intimate a matter to him, because he had deemed it important to the case).

Jack had read the letter left for him on the dining table by Hannibal Lecter first, then had passed it wordlessly to Clarice.

The letter had read:

 _Our apologies, Jack, that we have missed you. We have had to leave in a bit of a hurry._  
_Please help yourself to the meat we have had to leave in the kitchen._  
_It would be a crime to let it go to waste._  
_With our best wishes,_  
_H.L & W.G _

 

And then it had been taken in as evidence. And Jack had been in a state of near-break down for a good fortnight afterwards.

They had not received any further evidence of the new whereabouts of the pair, until there had been a reported sighting in Poland. It was assumed, then, that Graham and Lecter had travelled to Europe at last.

There had been a couple of grisly murders, and a couple of displayed bodies found in random patterns across a number of European countries for a couple of years, but in terms of confirmed sightings of Lecter and Graham, and concrete connections between them and the murders in question, there had been none. Nothing at all. Until now.

Clarice closed the file in front of her and stared at the phone where it now lay on the table. She could still hardly believe it. She glanced at her watch and knew that Jack Crawford would definitely be out of the meeting he had been in by now; it was why she had taken the call in his stead, she hadn’t wanted to disturb the meeting.

Now she would have to go and break the news. She was just afraid of breaking her boss in the process. He was so burdened by the guilt of what had happened to Will Graham sometimes that it visibly weighed him down.

But she could not keep this from him. Not something as big as this. So she took a deep breath, and left her desk, making her way to Crawford’s office.

Clarice knocked three times on the closed door, and waited to hear the familiar voice telling her to enter. She slipped into the room the moment Jack called for her to "Enter".

“Sir,” Clarice said immediately, “How was the meeting?”

Jack was sitting at his desk, resting his temples on his palms as he stared down at papers spread out overthe wooden surface. His suit and tie, which had been pristine when she had seen him before the meeting that morning, were now loosened and ruffled. She wondered what had taken place in the meeting and what had been said, and what kind of mood it had left her boss in; would he be in a frame of mind to hear the news that Clarice was going to give him?

For as long as Clarice had worked for Jack Crawford, she had seen her boss suffer many highs and lows. In his highs, which had been more frequent of late, he had a renewed passion for his work that was unmatched; he fought for justice and would not rest until a case was solved, until the guilty were hunted down and put behind bars. He was relentless and determined, but also compassionate and witty. He was influential. Clarice admired his ethic, his leadership and his ability as a mentor.

But Jack also suffered the lows, and who could blame him? Not many had gone through what Jack Crawford had gone through over the last decade; losing his wife to illness, losing three colleagues to Hannibal Lecter, hunting an endless plague of serial killers, the long and complex case of Will Graham. Sometimes he would be visibly weighted down by the memories, and sometimes, sometimes word of Hannibal Lecter and Will Graham would suddenly arise, reminding Jack Crawford that the past was not only the past, and that it was still a problem he was facing, and would still have to face.

He already looked tired when he looked up at her, folding his hands together in front of him on the desk, and she wondered how much more weight her news would place on his shoulders. How much more guilt he would have to bear.

“Clarice,” He greeted, “The meeting was not particularly encouraging, to be honest. There are no new leads on the _Jackson Case_ , and something else came up that rather dominated the…”

“No new leads?” Despite her duty to inform Jack of the information she had been given, hearing that there were no new leads on the _Jackson Case_  surprised her, and she could not help but interrupt her boss, “But the statement given by his ex-girlfriend was full of holes. They did not match the statement given by her current boyfriend or the evidence we found at the scene. Surely someone will be looking into…”

“Starling,” Jack held up a hand, and Clarice stalled sheepishly.

“Sorry, Sir.”

“Not at all, Starling, we will need to look into the _Jackson Case_ and review the evidence with all attention. But I saw your expression when you entered my office just now, and somehow I don’t think you came here to discuss the ins and outs of the _Jackson Case_.”

“No, Sir,” Clarice admitted, taking a breath, “I didn’t. I came here because I need to inform you that I received a phone call from the Italian Police whilst you were in the meeting. The Inspector who called was an ex-colleague of Commendatore Rinaldo Pazzi. He rang to tell me that they think they have found Will Graham.”

Jack sighed, rubbing a hand over his face, “So, you heard, then?”

Clarice was surprised. Jack looked tired, drawn and drained, but he did not look devastated, or in mourning. Maybe the news had not sunk in for him yet. Maybe he was not yet prepared to lose Will Graham for a second time (or third or fourth, as the case probably was by that point).

Clarice cleared her throat, before naturally adopting the voice that she had honed during her time with the FBI; the voice that she used to speak to someone who had suffered a loss, “About the body they found in Naples,” She said gently, “I did hear about it, Sir, yes.”

“Wait,” Jack said abruptly, sharp and confused. He looked up at her, eyes narrowed in suspicion. “What body in Naples?”

Clarice frowned, bewildered. If Jack had not heard of the body in Naples, what on earth had he been talking about? “They have found the body of a man fitting Graham’s description, in Naples, this morning?”

Jack shook his head, adamant, and still a little gobsmacked, “That’s not possible.”

“I’m sorry, Jack,” Clarice said, only able to slightly soften the blow; “But they think that it could be him. The body and head have apparently been…somewhat disfigured, so they cannot be certain, but if it isn’t then Inspector Rossini says it’s a doppelganger. They are running DNA tests now as I speak.”

“But that’s not possible,” Jack said again. He still looked astonished at the news but his tone was resolute, “Because toward the end of the meeting I received word from police in Turin that just a couple of hours ago a body was discovered. And I am more than certain that it is Will Graham’s work.”

Clarice spluttered, “What?”

Still a little wide-eyed, Jack looked down at the papers in front of him and turned them one by one, pushing them across the desk in Clarice’s direction. Clarice walked to the desk and took the seat opposite him, looking at the papers. They were printed copies of photographs.

“Oh my god,” Clarice exclaimed, “This is…this is…”

“I have had a contact in the Italian force since Will followed Hannibal and Bedelia Du Maurier out there and the bloody mess that turned into. My contact – Santoro - sent me these an hour ago, but he needn’t have bothered. Some Italian equivalent of Freddie Lounds has plastered photographs of the crime scene all over the internet.” Jack leant in, levelling her with a look, “I know how in depth you have studied the _Lecter and Graham Case_ and I need someone neutral to look at this crime scene, someone who isn’t me or Zeller or Price, someone who never met either of them and just knows the facts and the evidence, with none of the emotion and the history mixed in…” Jack tapped the nearest picture, “Tell me what you see.”

Clarice studied the crime scene photographs. She read the short written notes Jack had made beside them; details of the location and the circumstances.

In a private art collection in Turin, the owner had entered one of his private galleries to find a very unwelcome visitor. The body had been sat upright on a marble bench, and absolutely coated, from head to toe, in some thick black substance. Antlers, equally painted in the black substance, had been attached somehow to the head – driven into the skull by the looks of it. The body had broad shoulders and a strong, but fairly trim physique, and other than the black coating, was unclothed.

“That particular painting had been moved,” Jack explained, and Clarice looked closer.

The black painted, antlered man was sitting on the bench, looking at a painting; the painting that had been moved for the body to view. It was a typical classical hunting painting, depicting a forest in which a great stag was being brought down by wild dogs.

“This choice of painting and design has meaning to it,” Clarice said, “I have read your written accounts and statements of Graham’s state of mind after he had been admitted to the Baltimore State Hospital, accused of being a serial killer,whist he in turn was accusing Hannibal Lecter of being the real killer.”

She glanced up at Jack, and saw his jaw tighten. She knew of the guilt he carried from when he had believed Hannibal’s word over Will’s, but she also knew why he had done so. Will had been unwell, Hannibal had been able to provide answers, and had played the victim and concerned friend so very convincingly. But that did not save Jack from the knowledge that if he had believed Will sooner, Beverley Katz might still be alive, Abigail Hobbs might still be alive, Jack and Alana and Will might not have been nearly slaughtered, Hannibal Lecter would not have been able to up his body count, and teach Will Graham how to start his own, and that ultimately, Will Graham might not have run away with Hannibal Lecter.

Not wanting to let Jack linger on those thoughts, Clarice ploughed on with what she had intended to say, “You said that around the time of Will’s recovery and first few weeks in the State hospital, he had periods of relapse during semi-consciousness and hallucinatory episodes, during which he had babbled what you had deemed nonsense at the time; of stags and antlers, which you attributed to Garret Jacob Hobbs, but he had also spoken of another creature. You said he mentioned once or twice being plagued by _him,_ a ‘Wendigo’?”

“That’s right,” Jack said, his voice quiet and grave, “That is what he said. I never told him what he revealed to me, and he doesn’t remember revealing any of it. But yes, that is what he said.”

“He talked about a man that stood tall and made of shadow, antlers on his head, eyes black as his soul,” Clarice remembered what Jack had written, she remembered when she had first read it and it had disturbed her, whilst pieces of the puzzle had started to fall into place, “The Wendigo is a creature of cannibalism. It was not until later that you realised he wasdescribing how his encephalitis-inflicted mind saw Hannibal Lecter, that hehad seen what he believed to be the ‘true’ Hannibal Lecter.”

Jack nodded. “And what does this look like to you?”

The moment she had first seen the photographs of the crime scene she had thought it immediately. “It looks like Will’s description of the Wendigo.” She pulled another of the photos – a close-up of the body – toward her and looked at it closely, “It is difficult to compare Will Graham’s previous work with this, because the only confirmed ‘displayed’ murder scenes he has ever created have been Randall Tier and Liza Lawson.” Liza Lawson had been the body that Lecter and Graham had left behind in their garden in West Virginia, holding a camera, for Jack to find before they fled to Europe. “We don’t know if Lawson was just Graham’s work or if Lecter and Graham constructed it together, which is likely, which means we only have Randall Tier to compare this with, but, to be honest, they have their similarities.”

“Tell me,” Jack encouraged. She was sure Jack had already considered this on his own, but was in need of the second opinion. Clarice was determined not to disappoint her mentor.

“Graham made Randall Tier what Tier had pretended to be; the cave bear skull that Tier wore, he wanted to be an animal, so Graham made him into an animal, incorporating him into the skeleton in the museum. He made Randall Tier into how Graham maybe saw him; the ‘true’ Tier. The body in Turin, the Wendigo, it is essentially the same; Graham depicting the ‘true’ Hannibal Lecter? Graham has chosen another intellectual setting, but an art gallery instead of a museum this time. Art instead of history. But Lecter is passionate about art, isn't he?”

“He is,” Jack agreed.

“But this isn’t Hannibal Lecter’s body, is it?” Clarice asked doubtfully, pointing at the body that had been found in Turin. “It isn’t actually Lecter?”

“No,” Jack sighed, “It’s not him. I have studied the face and the structure of it is wrong. Besides, I doubt Will would be able to overpower or outsmart Lecter at his own game. But then, I never expected this to happen either.” Jack leant back in his chair, running a hand tiredly down his face before running it back and forth over his lips as he thought. “What can you tell me about this body in Naples?”

Clarice startled, having almost forgotten about the second body – the other death attributed to Will Graham that day. “A Mr Rossini rang from the police department in Naples. As I said before, he told me that a male body had been found this morning and that the remains bear uncanny resemblance to Will Graham; the parts that aren’t mutilated, anyway. Rossini said that since the death of Pazzi, he has been keeping an eye out for any case that too closely correlates to the Monster of Florence. Rossini knows that Graham and Lecter moved to Europe, and has been alert.”

“You said they are waiting on DNA results?” Jack asked, “Just how mutilated was the body?”

“His face was mostly intact; the hair and stubble is exactly the same. But the rest of the body was why Rossini decided to contact us. He says that he hasn’t seen anything like it in a long time.”

“How long?”

“Since Lecter was last in Italy. Rossini says that he thinks it is the work of Il Mostro – Hannibal Lecter – The Monster of Florence.”

Jack blinked, seemingly stunned, and a little shaken. Clarice wondered if Jack really was considering the possibility that Hannibal Lecter had finally murdered Will Graham.

“Hannibal is certainly capable of causing Will harm,” Jack said slow and pained, “We all know that. I thought that maybe he had changed, that his obsession with Will changed him dramatically. But I have seen that man carve into Will’s skull. He has gutted Will, killed people Will loved, drugged and manipulated him. I always worried that Hannibal would one day grow bored with his games, and I still worry that day will come. I would need to see the crime scene to know whether it is of Hannibal Lecter’s hand. If there is an organ missing we will know if it was him. But I am doubtful that the body is Will Graham. Not so much because of Lecter’s devotion, but more because of this other crime scene. I would bet my life that this Wendigo is Will Graham’s work.”

“Both bodies were found this morning,” Clarice said, “Which means that both murders must have taken place at some point last night, or at least arranged last night.”

Jack nodded, “Both bodies were found within hours of each other. To travel between Turin and Naples, it has to be, what? An eight hour drive? Or an hour flight, but you would need to add another hour or two onto that to deal with security, gates and boarding, and the security would be a challenge. It just seems unlikely that they can both be connected to Will.” Jack sighed, running his hand over his head. He looked tired again, now. “I never thought I would be sitting here debating whether Will Graham was involved in two separate murder cases,” he paused, shook his head forlornly and muttered, “Actually, Will always had a knack as being involved in murder cases.”

“So what shall we do?” Clarice asked, “We need to get back to Rossini and Santoro with what we know?”

Jack nodded, “And wait for the DNA results for the body in Naples, and get photos if Rossini can make it happen.”

“Yes, Sir.”

***

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” Roberto De Luca said, for the hundredth time that day, since they had been called in to deal with the most bizarre murder scene they had ever had to deal with.

Stefano Santoro rolled his eyes as he joined his colleague, having just finished a call with his US contact, who was leading the US case of the cannibal Hannibal Lecter.

“The Americans have,” Stefano told Roberto, coming to stand beside him and look again upon the black-tarred and antlered body in front of them. “Special Agent Jack Crawford has some insight into who he suspects the murderer to be, as I thought he would.”

“It was Hannibal Lecter?” Roberto asked, turning to him in surprise, “He is here, then? He has returned to Italy?”

“I think he has,” Stefano said, “But Crawford does not think this particular body was left by Hannibal Lecter. He thinks this is the work of Lecter’s companion, William Graham.”

“But then, Lecter would still be involved?”

“I asked Crawford the same thing. And he says he does not know whether Lecter was involved in this. He thinks there is a connection between Lecter and the body they found in Naples this morning.”

“I have heard that the murder in Naples is horrific,” Roberto said, and he sounded glad that he was based in Turin, rather than Naples. “More horrific than this. This is more…strange…than horrific.”

“I would not know. Unlike the leak of the photographs here, no photographs of the murder in Naples have found their way onto the internet.” The breach in crime scene security that morning had been infuriating, and if their superiors had anything to say, would not be forgotten for a long time. It was not what Stefano had needed to deal with that day.

“Probably a good thing,” Roberto commented, “Because this is enough of a nightmare for one day.”

“It will not be our only nightmare,” Stefano said, “We need to contact our colleagues in Naples. They need to hear what we know, and we need to see what they have there.”

“I was worried you were going to say that.”

“I think we can all be worried. As long as Hannibal Lecter and his friend are in Italy, we all have perfectly good reason to be worried.”

 

***

Il Mostro.

Hannibal Lecter.

The Monster of Florence.

Who else could be responsible for this?

When Domenico Rossini had first laid eyes on the body left in the Catacombe di San Gennaro, he had known immediately whose work this would be. Domenico Rossini had hunted over a dozen serial killers in his career, and had heard of a hundred more, but there was only one Il Mostro.

Rinaldo Pazzi had told them all about Il Mostro for years, but Domenico and many of his fellow colleagues were too young to remember the early days of Il Mostro. By the time they had joined the police, Hannibal Lecter had long since left Europe. Pazzi had called a select few of his colleagues several years ago, adamant in stating that the grotesque heart-shaped body left in the chapel at Palermo had been the work of Il Mostro, returned to test him again.

The next Domenico had heard of Pazzi, Pazzi had been dead. Killed by the very monster he had spent decades hunting for. The hunter was hunted himself, by a greater hunter than he.

Domenico had picked up the _Il Mostro Case_ with a few others in honour of Pazzi, but it had not been long until they had received word that Hannibal Lecter was locked up in some hospital for the criminally insane in Baltimore, USA. He had never understood why the Americans had thought that Hannibal Lecter needed a hospital. He needed a prison. Solitary confinement. A lethal dose of something, even. Because Hannibal Lecter was not criminally insane. He was a criminal, yes, but from all Rossini had heard, Hannibal Lecter was totally sane. He knew what he was doing when he murdered innocent people. But no, apparently this ‘hospital’ was a prison in all but name. Domenico was not convinced.

Hannibal Lecter had spent three years in the Baltimore State Hospital, before escaping with the man he allegedly had left the ‘broken heart’ in Palermo for, or so several internet sources seemed to suggest. The moment word had reached Domenico he had once again become alert for any sight or sound of Il Mostro, because he knew that one day he could return to Europe, return to Italy, and they had to be ready for that day.

Apparently, that day had come.

Il Mostro was here. In Naples.

The body that they had found that morning in the catacombs was partially mutilated. But Domenico had seen a number of features; the hair on the partially removed skull, the stubble on the face, the skin tone and build of the body, the look of the eyes and the nose, that struck certain similarities to the man that Hannibal Lecter was currently on the run with; an American ex-special agent, Will Graham. It had been too coincidental - an Il Mostro-style murder with a body that fitted Graham’s description - and almost too personal a display and message, to not be worth investigating as a possibility that this was, in fact, the body of William Graham.

Pazzi had always said that Il Mostro worked alone, so Domenico had been surprised when he had first heard that Lecter had found himself a companion. He had wondered, at the time, whether it would last. But if this body was indeed that of Will Graham, apparently it had not.

The body was strung up on one of the catacomb walls; hidden partially in shadow, which almost gave the body a great black wing, pointing up to the ceiling. The skin of the torso was gone, and there was a gaping hole where the heart should be. The head was partially scalped, the stomach cut open, the shoulders gouged and the side of the man’s cheek sliced deep and gaping; whether this was an attempt to hide that it was, or was not, Will Graham, was not clear. Domenico knew that Graham had been shot on several occasions, and that Hannibal Lecter had once opened up his abdomen, because there had been a story on the internet about it, on a site called TattleCrime. Was Il Mostro hiding non-existent scars on a man that was not Will Graham, so that it was harder to identify if it was actually Will Graham? Or re-opening wounds that should have killed Graham whilst performing some act of revenge on the real Will Graham?

The body was surrounded, up the walls and around the feet, with a very strange combination of items; honeycombs and mushrooms, antler, pieces of a broken instrument, snails, flowers, bones, and teeth from the victim’s own mouth. How Lecter had gone about gathering all these items was beyond Domenico, but then, Il Mostro was a terrible, terrifying being in itself.

And when Domenico had first drawn close to the body, he had realised there was not just a wing of shadow. Skin missing from the torso and back had been made into wings, that emerged from bloody crevices in the body’s shoulder blades.

One of the man’s ears had been cut off, but it was not anywhere to be found, until forensics had seen it tucked into the back of the body’s throat.

And finally, right below where the feet dangled, there was an elegantly written note that said, ‘ _I forgive you_ ’.

Domenico Rossini wondered in what world, in what dangerous sadistic mind, did forgiveness look like this?

 “Sir,” One of Domenico’s colleagues broke him from his thoughts, “Forensics have just called. They have the DNA results.”

***

Jack ended the call, his heart still beating unnatural and wild. He looked up to find Clarice watching him, her eyes wide and expectant.

She didn’t look worried or upset and Jack knew that whichever news he gave her, she would accept it as fact and would not get emotional about it. But then, she had never known Will Graham. Not as Jack had once known him. She had no concern for Will Graham, just an interest in a case that had been ongoing for years. It was a challenge to her, where to Jack it was still a dilemma of personal sacrifice and woe. It was why he needed her at his side on the case, to make sure that he did not get too involved in the emotions, and stayed focused on the cold, hard facts.

That knowledge did not stop the relief he was currently feeling from overflowing as he told her “It’s not Will.” He took a breath, his heart steadying finally. God, he was relieved. The DNA results had not been a match for Will Graham. “The body in Naples isn’t Will,” He gave a strangled laugh of guilt-ridden relief and anger. He should want Will stopped. Will was a murderer, now. There was no arguing that fact. But he had also been one of Jack’s closest friends. Jack had felt responsible for him, and still did. He loved him like a son, like a lost brother. And god, did he care about him still, despite everything.  “Thank god. Thank god for that.”

Jack sat back, tension seeping out of him in waves. He laughed at the ceiling. Thank god for that. Because nobody deserved the fate of the body that had been found in the catacombs. They had seen the pictures after a brief negotiation with the officer who had contacted Clarice that morning; a Domenico Rossini. It had been a brutal murder, and there had been evidence to suggest that some of the damage to the body had been done before the victim was dead; some of the skinning, the scalping, the cutting. It had been the gutting that had finally killed the victim, because Hannibal – and it was Hannibal’s work, Jack was damn sure of that - had not taken the care that he had taken when slicing Will open in his kitchen in Baltimore. When Hannibal had done it to Will, it had been a neat, surgical slice, with, assumedly, the intention of Will potentially surviving it. He had not intended his victim in Naples to survive.

“Any word on who the victim actually is?”

Jack shook his head, “Not yet. It’s too soon for a missing person to have been reported, as well. We will just have to wait. But he was a doppelganger for Will, that’s for sure. And that surely isn’t unintentional.”

“Hannibal Lecter purposefully killed a man that was the spitting image of Will Graham.”

“Yes. It looks that way.”

Clarice was frowning, and Jack could see her quick mind working. She had a knack for handling and analysing the grisly and terrible, as Will had. She did not have the empathy Will had, but she had the logic, and enough experience of the horrific potential of the human mind to put it into practice.

She was intelligent. She was stubborn and determined. And as Jack’s latest ‘protégé’ she was the successor to Miriam Lass and Will Graham. Jack knew that taking on anybody in that role after what had happened to the other two was a huge risk, on his part and hers. But Clarice had just fit into the roll seamlessly, and he had just one day realised that he was no longer keeping her inquisitiveness at arm’s length anymore. Plus, Hannibal Lecter was across the sea, and it was only he who had taken these people from Jack.

Jack needed that second person, that alternative thinker, at his side to see things in a way he didn’t, and vice-versa. He had the logic, and they had the vision. He was more effective that way, so wasn’t that worth the risk? If it meant he was saving more lives?

But then, wasn’t that the exact excuse he had used to exploit Will Graham’s empathy - to the point of exacerbating his encephalitis and encouraging him to take psychiatric sessions with Hannibal Lecter - in the first place?

Jack Crawford had failed Will Graham. But Hannibal Lecter had done the rest.

Clarice Starling thought that the case of Will Graham was a mystery that still need unravelling; something she could solve. Jack did not have the heart to tell her that it wasn’t so much of a mystery at all. Will’s ‘descent’ down his dark path was not a puzzle with a hundred different pieces. It was down to Hannibal Lecter’s manipulation, and most importantly down to the ignorance of Will’s most trusted friends. It was down to the ignorance of Jack, that he never saw the real Hannibal Lecter until it was too late.

“Hannibal Lecter killed a man that was the spitting image of Will Graham,” Clarice repeated, breaking Jack from his thoughts, “And Will Graham displayed a body of the Wendigo, which is what he once saw Hannibal as.”

“Yes.”

After a brief silence, Clarice cleared her throat, “Although it seems a little absurd and petty," She paused, clearly debating whether her next words would indeed sound as absurd as she thought they would, "The only assumption I can make from the murders is that they are angry at each other, and have committed these murders to send a message to each other?”

Jack sighed. As absurd as it did indeed sound, that was exactly as he had concluded, too. “I believe the same. A body fitting Will’s image to the letter is found mangled by Lecter, whilst a body of Will’s design is found, seemingly mocking Lecter. It does appear that something must have happened, because they might not have killed each other, but they have done the next best thing.”

“And we know both murders happened around the same time, hours apart,” Clarice said, “So does this mean that Hannibal Lecter and Will Graham are no longer together? No longer working together?”

“It would seem they have parted ways, yes,” Jack looked at her meaningfully. “There must have been some real disagreement to break such devotion.”

Because whether Jack liked it or not, Hannibal Lecter and Will Graham were devoted to each other, to the point of murder, to the point of manipulation and deception. It was unlike any relationship Jack had ever seen, but it was a force to be reckoned with. One which had captured both Hannibal and Will, seemingly without their consent, and then would not let them go. Will had tried to escape it, but in the end, his path inevitably turned back to Hannibal.

“You think they have broken up?” Clarice seemed surprised.

Jack remembered the day Clarice had been perusing the _Lecter and Graham_ case file and had looked over at Jack and had asked ‘ _Are they in love with each other? Are they a couple?”_

That had been before a local West Virginia newspaper had published a photograph that had caught Hannibal and Will in the background, in some kind of close embrace. It had proved Freddie Lounds’ rumours right, and had startled Jack far less than it probably should have done. He was more surprised that the two of them were still alive after the night of the Tooth Fairy and the cliff, than he was surprised about the fact they appeared to be in a relationship. He supposed he should have seen it coming a mile off and years before.

“For all that I hate to say it,” Jack said, “Yes. So for god’s sake, don’t let Lounds hear of it. She will start making out that this was all because of some lover’s tiff. Some messy break up.”

Lounds had been an advocator of the ‘Murder Husbands’ from the beginning. In fact, she had coined the title before anybody else had. Long before Will and Hannibal had ever run away together.

“But Sir,” Clarice said slowly, cautiously, “Isn’t there a possibility that that is exactly what this is?”

 Jack laughed sharply. It did sound utterly insane to even consider, but Hannibal and Will were both so unconventional and unpredictable that anything could be possible. “It is entirely possible. But I don’t want to have to deal with her gloating about it.”

A knock on the door had the two of them sitting up straight in their chairs and turning abruptly to look at the doorway.

Jenny Clark smiled at them nervously, “Sir,” Clark said, “Miss Freddie Lounds is in the reception. She wishes to see you.”

Jack rolled his eyes, knowing he should have just accepted the inevitable. Freddie Lounds was never going to be kept in the dark. And she wasn’t ever going to be kept quiet.

“Why don’t we just employ the damn woman?” He grumbled aloud, “She always seems to find out confidential information at the same time we do.”

To give credit to Freddie, she was an excellent investigator, even if the stories she wrote afterwards were brash and absurd.

“But if you employed her, then you would have to see her every day,” Clarice commented.

“True,” Jack admitted. He would hate that. He saw enough of the damn woman already. “Thank you, Clark, I suppose you should send her up.”

Once Jenny had left, Clarice stood up from her seat. “I suppose I had best leave you both to it,” She said, “In the meantime I can see if Rossini or Santoro have heard or found any more?”

Jack nodded. “Also, if Will and Hannibal have truly split up, Will might not have access to Hannibal’s untraceable accounts anymore. Look into getting record of Will’s registered cash accounts and keep tabs, see if anything has recently been withdrawn. Maybe make some enquiries with Rossini and Santoro about getting hold of some CCTV footage. Just follow the usual strategy as much as you are able to.”

“I will do,” Starling nodded. “I’ll report back to you once Lounds is gone.”

“Thank you, Starling,” Jack sighed, slouching in his chair and scrubbing a weary hand over his face. He felt drained, and that was before even seeing Lounds. This was definitely not a good day.

Clarice paused at the door, “Would you like me to get you some coffee, Sir?”

“Yes,” Jack said, “Please. Make it strong. Strong coffee.”

Clarice laughed, a bright thing that he did not hear all that often. Starling was a serious person, with a dry and sarcastic sense of humour. She did not often laugh out loud. “Are you sure you don’t want some alcohol in that coffee, Sir? To get you through the next hour with Lounds?”

“Don’t tempt me, Starling,” Jack warned with a tired grin, “And god help me if I’m stuck in here with that woman for an hour. I am hoping for ten minutes, tops.”

“Good luck with that,” A voice interrupted, and Jack saw the head of curly red hair over Clarice’s shoulder.  Freddie Lounds smiled at him smugly, “I think we have plenty to chat about, don’t you?”

“Don’t push your luck, Lounds,” Jack warned. “That will be all, Starling, thank you.”

“I will just get your coffee, Sir,” Starling replied, edging past Freddie.

“Clarice,” Freddie greeted, already well acquainted with Starling from a number of cases in the last couple of years.

“Freddie,” Clarice responded curtly.

Freddie Lounds closed the door behind her, and turned back to Jack with a wide, triumphant grin.

“So Jack,” She said, “What about this lover’s tiff, eh? Absolutely delicious, isn’t it?”

“A cannibal line,” Jack groaned in exasperation, “Really?”

Freddie laughed, “I couldn’t resist.”

This was going to be a terribly long hour.


	2. Chapter 2

_SEPTEMBER 2 nd \- THREE DAYS EARLIER_

 

Will was leaving smears of blood all over the hallway. It was going to take a lot of work to get the scarlet drops out of the carpet and the finger prints off the walls. But Hannibal supposed that it could not be helped. Will did have a rather deep wound in his arm, after all. He could be forgiven for making such a mess.

“I don’t fucking believe you, Hannibal,” Will spat at him, baring his teeth. And Hannibal had not seen Will this angry in quite some time. “Are you determined to try and kill me?” He staggered a little further down the hallway.

Hannibal, in all honesty, had not been trying to kill him. “That would be counterproductive, seeing as you are the partner that I kill other people with.”

“Are you determined to get me killed, then? Because I swear in the last few months you have had a death wish for me.”

Hannibal’s jaw worked of its own accord. That wasn’t true, but if Hannibal was being honest, it wasn’t strictly false, either.

“Again Will, that would also be counterproductive.”

“Pain, then?” Will’s voice trailed off in a whine as he made it to the dining room, slumping down in the nearest chair. “You want to see me in pain?”

That. That was a little closer to the truth of it.

Hannibal loved Will. He loved him fiercely, and more than he had ever, and would ever, love anything. But as much as he was Will’s and Will was his, Hannibal had found himself increasingly missing the days in which Will was his, but had no idea of it. Hannibal found himself missing being able to mould Will, sway his decisions and have Will need him, depend on him.

As much as Hannibal adored Will as this beautiful creature that glowered before him, this fully fledged, fully transformed Will Graham, the one Hannibal had always wanted to see, this Will Graham did not need Hannibal as much as he once had done. This Will was beginning to need Hannibal less and less, just as Hannibal wanted Will to need him more and more.

Hannibal was concerned that Will was going to one day decide that it was time to evolve further and leave Hannibal, his creator, behind, and Hannibal was becoming more determined to stop that from happening.

So, yes, maybe Hannibal had seen that the victim was holding a knife before Will had launched at him and had not warned Will about it, but Hannibal had seen the way the man was holding the weapon – it was a weapon carried in case of need of self-defence, this was a paranoid man that had never used the weapon he had carried, but was worried enough to carry one – and Hannibal knew that any blow made in panic would not be fatal. So yes, maybe Hannibal had allowed Will to be injured in the arm, but Will would see then that he could not do these things alone. He needed Hannibal beside him. He needed Hannibal to kill these people for him, cook these people for him, to help him home and stitch him up.

Hannibal watched as their dogs, Samson and Bev, rushed into the kitchen and to Will’s side, ever loyal, and Hannibal decided not to answer Will’s question, because he supposed the answer was yes, that that on this occasion (and, he supposed on a great number of times in the past, too) he had wanted to see Will Graham in pain.

He decided to state instead, “I do not see how this particular incident was my fault. I did not stab you.”

“No,” Will agreed, voice hard and gaze harder, resolutely refusing to pet the dogs, assumedly not wanting to coat them in blood, “The victim stabbed me. I didn’t know he had the knife until it was wedged in my arm, but you must have seen that he had it, Hannibal. Why didn’t you warn me?”

Hannibal paused, “Because I…”

“No, wait, don’t tell me,” Will interrupted, adjusting his grip on the jacket he had pressed to the wound in his arm. “It’s because you ‘wanted to see what I would do’? Huh? You wanted to see how your creature would react? Well I am reacting now, Hannibal, and I am not fucking happy.”

Hannibal glared at Will, “You are being rude, Will,” he warned.

And Will _was_ being unnecessarily rude; interrupting, swearing, assuming Hannibal’s actions, all terribly rude. But then, Will was also speaking something rather close to the truth, more so than Hannibal was comfortable with.

“Well I think under the circumstances I think I can be forgiven, don’t you?” Will shrugged his injured arm as evidence, and visibly gritted his teeth as a fresh flow of blood seeped scarlet out from under the jacket pressed on it and down his white sleeve. “Christ, this hurts.”

“It will need stitches,” Hannibal told him, “I can sew it for you.”

Will’s glare was as sharp as the knife that had cut him. “You could have stopped me needing to be stitched up in the first place, if you had only warned me about the knife,” Will snapped, “But I suppose it isn’t going to fix itself.”

Hannibal took that as acceptance, so turned and walked out of the room and into the kitchen to collect the nearest first-aid pack. They led a particularly hazardous lifestyle, so Hannibal had a number of them kept in various rooms about the house. Bev followed at his heels, just as Samson stayed devotedly at Will’s side.

That was often the case. Samson was a stray that Will had picked up whilst they had been in ‘hiding’ in the US. Samson was scruffily charming, not unlike Will himself, and Will had become very fond of him, finally persuading Hannibal to let Will keep him. Will had coaxed Samson in and trained him, so Samson was naturally a little more loyal to Will than Hannibal. Hannibal had given Bev to Will as a present, finding her in a rescue shelter as a puppy. Part Weimaraner, she was elegant and sleek, and Hannibal had found satisfaction in training her. He had never had pets before, and having Bev’s total obedience was really rather nice. He wished Will’s obedience would be so easy to achieve, but then, Will’s lack of predictability excited Hannibal in equal measure, and had been what had attracted him to Will in the first place.

Hannibal returned with the first aid kit and sat Will down beside him on the couch. Hannibal cleaned the wound, waited for noises of complaint and whines of discomfort from Will, but none were forthcoming; Will’s teeth were gritted stubbornly.

Hannibal threaded the needle.

He sewed Will up in silence.

Will was stewing in his own unhappy silence, continuing to clench his teeth every so often when the needle punctured his skin and the thread ran through it, knitting his flesh back together.

“I suppose this isn’t the worst injury I have endured,” Will told him suddenly, as if Hannibal was not aware of what Will had been put through, and what he had survived, “I have been stabbed before, I have been drugged, I have been beaten. You tried to saw my skull open, of course. And you gutted me. I have been shot, thanks to Jack and the ever-amiable Chiyoh...”

Hannibal clucked his tongue, “You were going to stab me on that last occasion. Chiyoh was protecting me.”

Will scoffed, “And here I am, stabbed, with no Chiyoh of my own to shoot somebody on my behalf. You are supposed to protect me, Hannibal, like I protect you!”

Hannibal did not look up to meet Will’s eye, and kept his gaze firmly on his work, “The man is dead, is he not? And you are not.”

“That may be so, but did you have to let him take a chunk out of me first?” Hannibal could feel Will’s gaze on him, so he finally glanced up and allowed Will a moment of eye contact. Will was frowning at him, an angry set to his jaw, “I know you let that happen, Hannibal.”

Hannibal opened his mouth to say something, but Will interrupted him for a second time. “Don’t lie to me, Hannibal. It’s rude.”

Hannibal swallowed the smooth lie he was about to weave, and went back to his stitching, cutting the last thread before wrapping a bandage around Will’s upper arm.

“And if I said that that was the case,” Hannibal said quietly, finally, tying off the bandage, “What would you do?”

Will was staring at him openly, a little stunned apparently, that Hannibal was actually admitting to it. “I would wonder why the hell you still think it’s worth endangering me to see what I will do. Surely you know me well enough by now.”

Hannibal looked up at him again, and actually watched the moment that realisation dawned on Will, and his eyes narrowed.

“Or maybe that is your reason behind it,” Will said slowly, “You know me too well now. I am not a mystery to you anymore. I have grown complacent, and you have gotten bored, is that it?”

Hannibal opened his mouth to give an excuse, but, for once, he found that the words were not forthcoming.

He did not have to deliberate long.

“You were the one that proposed that we wear rings. Be _husbands._ But you seem to forget the commitment that is involved in that, Hannibal. You have grown tired of your toy now that it has nothing left to offer you, is that it?" Will asked, scowling and defensive, "Tired of your dog now that it has run out of tricks to learn?”

It was not that he was tired of Will, it was not that. He knew that if he ever wanted to experience a different Will, he could. Hannibal had played psychiatrist, puppet master, friend, tormentor, confidant, mentor, opponent, lover to Will. Will had so much left to offer because their relationship was ever fluid, ever changing. It had kept them together this long. He liked seeing the matching wedding rings on their fingers.

At the beginning of their relationship and the start of their time in hiding, Hannibal had worried that one day he would indeed grow bored of Will Graham or find a new interest, and that one day he would kill Will Graham, for lack of anything else to do with him, for need to have Will in every way, as eating him would be the only thing that he and Will Graham had not shared.

But boredom with Will had not come. Only a boredom with the situation, rather than the company. Hannibal always liked the continuation of the game. When he had decided that he and Will had remained stagnant for too long in the USA, he had ensured that they had been caught in a photograph at the opera house in West Virginia, to get the police involved in the game again and restart the chase. Europe had been a new place for he and Will to explore. And he and Will had since then not remained in one place for too long, because Hannibal always needed something new, something different. He needed new challenges for Will and himself to face. Or else he got restless, cabin fevered. It was why they had moved to Italy, after only four months in Hungary.

He was floundering at that moment with Will because it was less about Hannibal growing bored with Will, than it was his concern that one day Will would think he had outgrown Hannibal and Hannibal’s guidance. Will would not do well without Hannibal’s guidance, but that did not mean that Will would not one day think that he was a strong enough creature to exist on his own. Hannibal did not want him to think that. Not because he thought that Will would destroy himself without Hannibal there to guide him, but Will would not flourish, because Hannibal often knew Will better than Will knew himself. Hannibal had not been able to control Will’s final transformations, but he had been able to observe and advise. Without Hannibal, Will could be reckless. Without Will, Hannibal would be lonely. He had never before needed a companion, but he had never loved as he had loved Will.

So his deliberate carelessness of late, with the intention of Will faltering or getting hurt or making mistakes, was with the view that Will would realise that he still needed Hannibal. He wanted Will to continue depending on him. He missed the Will that shook from nightmares and clung to him after waking, afraid and trusting Hannibal to protect him from dragon-like wings and beasts with antlers. He missed the Will that was drowsy and pliant after injury or medication. He missed the Will that came to him, panicked about becoming a monster. He missed the Will that demanded Hannibal’s attention through jealousy.

For so long Hannibal had wanted to see Will achieve his final transformation, and it had been a joy to witness. It was still a joy to experience. What Hannibal had not expected, however, was the apparent increased independence that that transformation would bring. He wanted Will to need him, as well as to be of his own final design. It made Hannibal sound selfish, but Hannibal had always been selfish when it came to Will Graham.

“I was worried at first, that you would just kill me when that time came, the time when you grew bored of me,” Will was saying, “But maybe instead you figured to let someone else kill me instead?”

Hannibal could have told Will the truth; that it was Hannibal’s insecurities about Will’s independence that was causing this and not a boredom of Will himself. But Hannibal did not do that, because he became distracted by Will's last statement. The thought appalled him. Even if, one day, he was forced to kill Will for any reason, it would certainly not be a deed done by unworthy hands. “No,” He said, “Only I would get the pleasure of killing you.”

Will snorted bitterly, “Of course. But we have already established that you don’t want me dead, I suppose," Will said, turning his hand and the wedding ring on his finger glinting in the light as evidence of that, "So the only other reason would be that it has been a long time since you have seen me unhappy, and that you miss my pain and suffering, now the creatures in my nightmares are more old friends to me than enemies. Is that it? You want to see me hurt?”

“I do not want to see you hurt.”

“Really?” Will feigned faux-surprise. “From what I remember, you have always, always enjoyed hurting me. You have physically wounded me, you have mentally abused me. You have killed people I love. Abigail, Beverly. You almost killed Jack and Alana. You sent a serial killer after Molly and Wally.”

The words did not wound Hannibal like they had probably been intended to. Hannibal did not regret anything he had done, he never did. Besides, it had led him, _them,_ to their life together. But it did irk him that Will sometimes brought it up as a bargaining chip in the hopes that it would make Hannibal guilty. Particularly because it never did make Hannibal feel guilty, it just made him angry that Will only brought it up, like he hated Hannibal for it, in moments when they argued. At any other time, Will never mentioned it, and seemed happy enough to share Hannibal’s bed, to cuddle up to Hannibal on an evening, he was happy enough to eat human meat and no longer referred to it under the pretence of it being cuts of animal meat; tenderloin, chop or steak.

Tired of Will using such an argument and having to let it slide for the sake of peace, he decided now was the perfect time to voice his irritation.

“It is interesting,” He said, watching Will coolly, “That you only seem to remember Abigail and Beverly when it suits an argument against me.”

Will’s mouth dropped open and his eyes lit up in rage. “How dare you,” His voice was low and dangerous, barely a hiss, and oh, how wonderfully hostile this creature could be. “How dare you say that? I think of them every single day. Every day.” Will jabbed at his own head with his finger, “For so long I could not stop seeing them in my mind, let alone in my memory.”

“But then the visions of them quieted in your mind, didn’t they?” Hannibal bit back, smooth and unaffected, “But you do not want to forget, because you do not wish me to forget. I assume that is why you named one of our dogs after dear Beverly Katz, to remind yourself to remember?”

Will looked outraged again, “I named her Bev to memorialise her. Because you took her from me. You took them both from me!” He shouted, “You killed them with your own bare hands.” Will lurched forwards and grasped Hannibal’s wrists, wincing as he exerted his wounded arm, but he continued in lifting Hannibal’s hands up between them. “You killed them with these hands.”

And yes, Hannibal had. He had held Abigail Hobbs still with one hand as he slit her throat with the other, feeling the tug of the blade through skin and muscle, as blood sprayed Will in drops of scarlet revenge, because Will needed to know how he had hurt him. He had held Beverly Katz down and strangled her, fingers unrelenting in their grip around her throat, because she had come too close to discovering him too early, and it had been Will that had sent her on that path. Hannibal did not regret it. Her kidney had tasted quite excellent.

“These hands that you have since allowed to hold you and touch you and heal you,” Hannibal reminded him, coolly, “I do not think it is usually a problem for you. Not until you need ammunition to use against me.” Hannibal moved his hands a little in Will’s grip. “And your own hands are not so clean, may I remind you. Though, there was a time when I wondered whether you were actually going to kill anyone yourself. You got so accomplished at manipulating other people to kill for you, you had no need to get your own hands bloody.”

Will had attempted murder by proxy a number of times. He had tried to kill Hannibal via Matthew Brown. He had set up Frederick Chilton for Francis Dolarhyde. He had manipulated Chiyoh into finally killing her prisoner. Hannibal thought it worth reminding Will that he was not holier-than-thou in this situation, in their household, in the things that they had done together, achieved together.

“But you have taught me to use my own hands,” Will stepped back, clearly seething, blaming Hannibal again, “And taught me how to see clearly. I am seeing clearly now.” He stepped back a little further, expression wild as he pointed at Hannibal, “I see you. I see you, growing bored of me, wishing to discard of me. I see you and your bloodied hands. The hands that killed or removed everyone I cared about from my life until there was only you.”

Hannibal was not convinced. Will was saying these things to wound. He did not mean them, not truly. He may have thought them once, but Hannibal had indeed taught him to see the world through different eyes, to see his own potential. Hannibal had not needed to apply much manipulation by the end, because Will had opened his own eyes and let himself become who he was destined to be. Hannibal doubted Will had had much regret over his choices in a long time.

“You say that like the last few years have not been the best and most exhilarating of your life.”

“I don’t know Hannibal, have they been the best? On the run with you?” Will’s lip curled, “I was pretty damn tranquil with my wife and stepson and my dogs before all this.”

Again, Hannibal knew that Will did not mean it and had only said it to cut him. Countless mornings lying together in bed, with Will murmuring into his ear, curled into his side, was evidence enough that Will was lying. But this intention to wound worked, because there was very little Hannibal liked less than hearing Will talk about his ex-wife.

Hannibal lurched forward of his own accord, triggered by Will’s insult, and grasped hold of Will’s arm. Furious and vengeful, he pressed down on the bandaged wound hard, pressing his thumb onto the fresh stitches.

Will paled and buckled with it almost immediately, shouting out with a choking pain.

“Hannibal,” He gasped, head hitting Hannibal’s shoulder as he attempted to stay upright, “Hannibal. Let me go. Let me go, Hannibal,” His tone was begging, but Hannibal was still seething.

Hannibal could almost breathe and taste the pain and the gasps, tangible in the air. He could feel Will struggling against him, but was not as strong as he. For that moment he felt it again, the dominance over a Will that was confused and powerless to his manipulations. A Will that was helpless and yet so wild and resilient at the same time. But that was a Will from long ago. That had been a Will that did not yet love him.

Hannibal shook his head, coming back to himself, and realised what he was doing. His anger abated fast, and he slowly eased his fingers from around Will’s arm.

Will pulled his arm back into his body, skin white and bloodless. He moved just far enough away that Hannibal could see the ice coldness in his eyes.

The punch Will threw at his face with his good arm was not entirely unexpected, but the force of it did catch Hannibal by surprise. It cut his apology off pretty swiftly, too.

“I’m leaving,” Will spat at him, before turning for the front door, “And I’m taking the dogs and the car.”

Hannibal’s feet were moving before his brain had even truly registered what Will had said. Will was leaving? Leaving him how?

Hannibal beat Will to the door, and stood between Will and the exit, blocking the way.

“Will, what are you doing?” Hannibal asked, tone warning.

Will looked up at him, a scowl fixed on his face, his eyes full of fury. “I said I’m leaving.”

“Leaving here?” Hannibal asked, low and dangerous, “Or leaving me?”

“Both,” Will said immediately, eyes narrowing. “I’m leaving both.”

“You aren’t leaving me.”

“Watch me,” Will moved to get past Hannibal and Hannibal moved into his way again. In that moment Hannibal saw a flicker of something in Will’s eyes. A flicker of something old, and Hannibal knew what it was. It was the knowledge that Hannibal was a much stronger being than him, and that if Hannibal wanted to stop Will, to kill him, that it was a fight Will would never win.

But Hannibal knew that he would not be able to kill Will, not today, and probably not ever. They would probably destroy each other eventually, of that Hannibal had little doubt, but they would go together, like falling from a clifftop in each other’s arms. Hannibal was loathe to think of a life without Will in it, now.

“Is that it, then?” Will asked in a harsh whisper, brave again, and suddenly so close that Hannibal could feel Will's breath on his face. “You always said that I wouldn’t be another Bedelia to you, but here we are. I have decided to disobey you. Are you going to punish me for it? Going to take a leg from me, Hannibal? To stop me from running?”

Hannibal thought back to the day that he and Will had paid Bedelia their last visit. He remembered what he had overheard Bedelia say to Will whilst Hannibal had been in the kitchen preparing her leg for them to eat;

_“Hannibal Lecter and William Graham; missing and presumed dead. Consumed by the sea, they all said. People never learn. Nothing will ever consume Hannibal Lecter. And nothing will ever consume Will Graham but Hannibal Lecter… You are the 'husband' now, as I was the 'bride'. And you are his most savoured of people, Will Graham. Why would he not want a taste of his greatest prize?_

_You are changed, Will Graham. No longer the fragile little object of Hannibal’s affections and manipulations. No. You are his bride now, truly. Or maybe you are not the bride of Frankenstein at all. Maybe, you are just Frankenstein’s monster. A vicious creature of Hannibal’s making and design. He is perfecting you to his tastes. But he could dismantle you again, if he wished._

_I am going to go out on a limb here, pardon the pun, and say that you have no idea what Hannibal will do with you if he is one day inclined so. He cares for me differently to you, yes, but he has only taken a leg from me. He feels hunger and love for you in entirety. If you leave him as I did, he will not just take a leg from you. He will take everything.”_

The most unsettling thing about Bedelia’s claims at the time was that Hannibal had honestly wondered if her predictions could one day come true.  But now that day had come, and Hannibal knew that he could not take everything from Will without taking something vital away from himself. And to take a leg from Will to stop him running would ruin their relationship forever; Will would be his prisoner rather than his companion, and that would be a change in their relationship that yes, would be new, but it would not last.

Hannibal wanted them to last for as long as they both lived, invincible, and then committed to legend, like Achilles and Patroclus. The comparison was flawed for Hannibal in the fact that Achilles and Patroclus did not die together, but it did lie a little too close to home in the fact that he believed Achilles' heel to be - in many ways - Patroclus, rather than any physical wound.

“But you aren’t running,” Hannibal said, for lack of anything else to say.

“Aren’t I?” Will asked, whistling sharply and watching the dogs come creeping down the corridor toward him, wary of the raised and angry voices of their owners.

“You are truly leaving,” Hannibal said, flatly. He had given Will everything he wanted, in the hopes that Will would not want for anything else. But still he was watching him slip through his fingers.

“Yes.”

“Then go,” Hannibal said spitefully. He did not want Will to be right in his accusations, in his testing of Hannibal’s need for dominance. He did not want to prove Bedelia or Will right; it would mean that he had become predictable. And that made him weak. “But you will come back to me, though,” He had every confidence in that. Will could not live without him. “You always do.”

Will looked surprised, but his face settled again, cool and calm, “That was before you taught me to be my own hunter, Hannibal. Maybe I do not need you anymore. I do not think we are still so conjoined that I cannot do this on my own.” He opened the door and let the dogs through it, before following after them. Will looked up at him, “Maybe, by this point, we can survive separation.”

And then he slammed the door behind him.

Hannibal lurched forwards and was about to tear open the door and make after Will, but at the last moment he stopped himself, his fist colliding with the door.

The anger bubbled up inside him like poison, seeping through his veins and throbbing in his temples. How could Will think that he could do this on his own? How could Will think he could leave him?

Will had tested his nerves, tugged at his insecurities, and everything Hannibal had feared might happen had happened.

Will had left him.

 

***

 

Hannibal had honestly not intended to find a victim that looked like Will. Hannibal had merely been out hunting for anybody that wronged him in the slightest way.

But then he had seen the man sitting alone by a fountain, a fifteen minute walk from the house, and had had to do a double take to make sure that it wasn’t actually Will, just sitting and moping.

On second glance, he knew that it was not Will, but the man looked enough like Will to get Hannibal’s blood boiling all over again.

Before he knew what he was doing, he was approaching the man.

“Hello,” Hannibal said, purposefully thickening his accent, “Can you help me, I have gotten lost.”

The man looked up from the book in his hands and smiled at him kindly, “Sure,” He said, and the accent was decidedly British; well-spoken, Queen’s English. “Was there somewhere in particular that you were looking for?”

The man’s hair was brown and curling, the stubble on his face a little longer than Will’s currently was. He had the same physique, similar shaped features, and blue eyes behind spectacles. He was even wearing an outfit that Will would have definitely worn, five years earlier, before Hannibal had taken over the purchase and fashion decisions of his wardrobe. The man looked a little younger than Will, and did not hold any fascination for Hannibal other than his physical appearance. He looked like Will, but he was not Hannibal’s Will.

“My hotel,” Hannibal said, “I went for a walk but I was not paying attention to where I was going.”

The man nodded, “Happens to the best of us. What’s the name of the hotel?”

Hannibal told him and the man stood up from his bench, “I think I know which one that is. I am heading in that direction, if you want to join me?”

Hannibal definitely did want to join him. The man had not been rude to Hannibal, in fact he had been polite and respectable in every way. Unfortunately, he looked just like Will Graham, and that apparently was enough for Hannibal to condemn him that night.

“You are holidaying then?” The man asked him conversationally as they walked, “How do you find Naples?”

“It is a beautiful city.”

“Mmm,” The man agreed, “I was meant to be just passing through on my way down south, but something about this place caught my attention. I have only been here for six days, but that’s four days longer than I intended to stay.”

“You are from England?”

“Yes, Cambridgeshire,” The man offered, “I decided to get in some travelling of Europe before I start a new job in November.”

“And you have enjoyed your travels?”

“They have been pretty good so far, yes,” The man glanced at him, “And where are you from?”

“Lithuania,” Hannibal offered, “Hence the heavy accent. I have mastered the English language, but not the English accent.”

“You don’t need an English accent,” The man said adamantly, “It sounds more interesting with yours, besides. Plus, multilinguals always amaze me. We English get lazy about learning other languages and it’s a shame. My tour of Europe has helped me pick up the odd phrase or two from each country, though, which has been nice.” He smiled, and was so very charming that Hannibal almost regretted the fact that he was going to kill him.

Almost.

“You do look just like Will, Henry,” Hannibal told the man later that evening, when he had him strung up in the house.

Henry’s body was shaking, whether from pain or fear, Hannibal could not tell. Probably both, by that point.

“It is such a shame, as in any other circumstance, we would have gotten along so well.”

“Please,” Henry was begging again. He had been doing that a lot. It did sound lovely in a British accent, but Hannibal did not want to hear begging. He was done with begging. “Please, don’t kill me.”

“I am afraid I must,” Hannibal told him, walking towards him and running a hand over that near-identical stubble, “Will has upset me, you see. He has betrayed me. But unfortunately, I apparently love him too much to take revenge on him. And you, well you may just be the next best thing. Because I want to forgive him, but I also want to punish him, send him a message. It is a dilemma, you see?”

“I don’t see,” Henry said, his voice faint and thick with tears. There was blood running down one side of his face where Hannibal had carved into it with a knife. “I don’t see.”

“That is where you and Will differ, I suppose. Will sees so many things, and apparently you do not see them at all.”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry he has made you angry, but please. _Please!_ Don’t kill me…”

“I am not just going to kill you, Henry,” Hannibal told him, “I am going to eat a part of you too, and I wonder if you will taste as sweet as I imagine Will’s flesh would be. I wonder whether my revenge will taste sweet."

Hannibal raised a hand to brush a thumb over Henry’s quivering lips, and tried to imagine Will in his place; imagine carving into Will, drawing blood and parting flesh, making Will plead with him (or even silently and hatefully take it all without giving Hannibal the satisfaction), making Will cry, making Will hurt as he held that wild and wonderful life so fully in his hands, ready to crush it in his fingers. He found that, for once, he could not imagine it. He did not want to kill Will, but he wanted to send him a message. He could not do it to Will. But he could do it to someone else.

Hannibal looked back at the man in front of him, who looked like Will, but was not Will. Something that felt like guilt knocked against his conscience, but he ignored it. It was not welcome here.

“But I fear you may likely just leave a sour taste in my mouth," Hannibal said.

***

  _SEPTEMBER 8 th_

 

“They have identified the victim in Naples,” Jack Crawford informed Clarice Starling. “Henry Dale. A Brit on an extended vacation. The landlord of the place he was lodging in informed authorities that he had not returned for two nights, and when the police checked his room they found his passport. They figured it out from there. The DNA matched. His family have been informed.”

Clarice had been busy working on the _Jackson Case_ , and so Jack had been following up enquiries alone that day. It had only been three days since they had received news of the murders, but since then the information had been coming in thick and fast from their Italian contacts. But it was, in the end, a case for the Italian authorities, and Jack and Clarice were mainly sources of information, rather than leaders of the case on this occasion, and so their other work, such as the _Jackson Case,_ had to resume priority.

“And it was definitely Hannibal Lecter?”

“I have no doubt on that. The choice of the catacombs, the fact that the body was surrounded by items alluding to murders Will and he solved or committed together. It is his work. I am as certain on that as I am that the body in Turin was Will Graham’s work. The victim in Turin has also been identified; a local man, Francesco Moretti, restaurant owner. It appears he was chosen more randomly than Hannibal’s choice of victim, but Moretti’s business and job as head chef, and the fact that his body form was similar to Hannibal’s makes him a relatively specific choice as well.  His family have also been informed,” Jack paused, “And the Italian forces have found the house as well.”

“Lecter and Graham’s house?”

“Empty, and wiped clean. There were marks of blood smears on the wall in the hallway, but they have been so well scrubbed with chemicals that it’s all useless to Forensics. Just a few dog hairs left behind, which, knowing Will, is absolutely no surprise. There is no trace of when they left, or if it was just Hannibal in the house by that point. The reason behind their separate murders is still a mystery.”

“Not to Freddie Lounds, it’s not,” Clarice said, “Did you see her article?”

Jack sighed, and he put his face in his hands, “I did,” He said, his reply muffled by the palms of his hands, “You know, for someone who is so very good at finding evidence, she really does write some bullshit.”

“I don’t know,” Clarice said, in an attempt to cheer up her boss, who had been less and less high-spirited since they had first received the news of the two separate murder cases attributed to Will Graham, “I thought it was better executed than ‘ _Hungry in Hungary_ ’.”

Jack parted his fingers, staring at her through the space, and she could see the raise of his eyebrow. He looked exasperated, but amused, which she accepted as an achievement. “What the hell is ‘ _Hungry in Hungary’_?”

“She wrote it two months ago. It wasn’t very insightful, just rumour-mongering.”

“And I thought ‘ _A Taste for Swede’_ was bad.”

“Yes, well, she is a never-ending source of Murder Husband tripe and quality puns.”

“That she is,” Jack agreed, finally dropping his hands. “It’s not even that the puns are terrible that irritates me the most. It’s that she almost makes light of the pair of them. She writes their story like it is some steamy, volatile romance, and follows it like some celebrity gossip magazine.”

“She makes them seem less dangerous than they are,” Clarice clarified.

“Exactly. And dangerous is exactly what they are. Hannibal has always been dangerous, and Will had a knack for attracting it before he learnt how to create it, too,” Clarice watched as Jack’s hand absently moved up to his neck; a scar from a knife on the back of his hand, to cover a scar left by a shard of glass on his neck. “They should never be underestimated. They are both intelligent, they are both unpredictable, and they are both very dangerous, in their own ways. Apart, they are forces to be reckoned with. Together, they are near unstoppable.”

“But anybody can be stopped,” Clarice assured him. “And they are no longer together, are they? If we find one, the other will come eventually? And if not, at least they will be separated.”

Jack looked at her for a long moment, but she knew he was really years away, with his memories, as he turned the problem over in his head. His hand still rested over the scar on his neck.

“This is not the end of them,” He spoke eventually, “They will come back together eventually…whether to reunite or kill each other, I don’t know. But I know those men, and I know how they were with each other by the time they killed Francis Dolarhyde together. One cannot exist without the other. It is hard to admit, but it is the truth of it. They will either destroy each other, or destroy the world together. Until we get more evidence or pick up some kind of a trail for either of them, I suppose it will be a waiting game.”

Clarice sighed, “And then the game of cat and mouse continues.”

“But who is the cat in this scenario?” Jack asked her gravely, “Us, or them?”

***

  _SEPTEMBER 27 th_

 

Will had finally found the house on the edge of the immense Latvian forest. He had never been there, but he had seen it on paper. He had known Hannibal had bought it a few months before.

It was a rustic house, a log lined exterior with a sloping roof, but kitted out with a modern interior. It was fairly modest, completely isolated; definitely not Hannibal’s usual style. This was a quiet, private getaway if a situation ever called for a hideout, if the police ever got too hard on their trail, if they ever had to get themselves out of the spotlight; this had been a perfect choice.

Will figured that if Hannibal had run anywhere, it would have been here.

It was Hannibal that he was really here to find.

And Hannibal had no idea that Will was coming for him.

It was dark, late in the evening. The clock had barely struck eleven.

Will had pulled the car up a couple of miles away, concealed amongst mighty tree trunks. He had let Samson and Bev out amongst the trees, tethered by long rope, just in case. He had walked the rest of the way to the house.

The grass was damp underneath his expensive sneakers (sneakers because Will had demanded some more comfortable footwear. Expensive, because Hannibal had decided to be in charge of buying them) and he moved silently towards the back door of the property.

He reached out and laid his fingers on the cooled handle of the back door. He tested it, and it moved soundlessly. The door pushed inward. It was open.

His entry into the house was silent. The once ungainly Will Graham was now the stealthiest of hunters. He had been trained by the very best. Now it was time to test whether the very best was still better than him.

He toed off his shoes to avoid the squeak of the rubber soles on the light wooden flooring, and then crept with soft-footed treads down the hallway. Light was shining through a doorway at the end of the passageway, and that was what he headed toward.

He stopped at the entranceway, pressed back into the wall, and craned his neck as he looked around the door and into the room beyond.

A long dark-wood dining table dominated the centre of the room, because of course Hannibal had to have his priorities sorted. It was surrounded by six chairs that were never going to be all occupied. It wasn’t like Hannibal could invite dinner guests as he once had. But not all of the seats were unoccupied.

Hannibal was seated at the table.

His back was to the doorway, and he was reading a newspaper. He did not appear to have heard a thing. He did not suspect a thing.

Will felt his chest constrict at the sight of Hannibal, even if it was just the back of him. Hannibal was wearing a crisp maroon shirt, that stretched impressively over the broad back of his shoulders. His hair wasn’t styled and looked particularly wild.

Hannibal turned the page.

Will was not going to allow himself to back down.

He moved noiselessly into the room, having seen there was no window directly in front of Hannibal to catch Will’s reflection, and as he approached the back of Hannibal’s chair, he eased the dagger that had been hiding in his sleeve, out into his fingers.

When he was only a couple of paces away, he suddenly took them at a quick stride, wrapping a strong arm around Hannibal’s shoulders, at the same moment as he pressed the knife up to Hannibal’s neck, forcing Hannibal to tilt his head back to avoid being cut.

“Hello Will,” Hannibal said.

To Will’s fury, Hannibal did not seem the least bit shocked. He did not sound surprised. He did not sound afraid.

And that was when Will felt a slight pressure on his leg. He looked down, to find an equally sharp blade resting against his thigh.

Still bested by the best.

“You heard me coming,” Will said, and was irritated at how petulant his voice sounded.

“Only because I was expecting you,” Hannibal’s voice was calm, lilting, his adam’s apple moving perilously close to the knife in Will’s hand. “Actually, you are a little late, I was expecting you a couple of days ago.”

Will let out a bitter laugh. “It’s only been three weeks. Did you really think I wouldn’t be able to exist without you for that long?”

“Quite the contrary,” Hannibal said, “I was waiting for this, for you to come and try to kill me.”

There was a pause.

Was that what Will had come to the house for? Had he really come here to kill Hannibal? If it had been his true intention, he surely would have struck at Hannibal the first chance he had; slashed the knife across Hannibal’s throat instead of just holding it there. He surely would have done it by now - whether Hannibal had then stabbed him in the thigh at the same time or not - if he had really been that determined to remove Hannibal Lecter from the world.

He had found the house and entered it in anger, with the intention of catching Hannibal off guard, but even before he had arrived and parked the car, he knew that he wasn’t on a mission to kill Hannibal. He knew he would not be able to do that. But Hannibal did not need to know that, yet.

“You predicting it makes me not want to do it now,” He said, relaxing his hand just a little and moving his face a little closer to Hannibal's hair, but not to the side of his head, because he still didn’t trust the teeth not to bite him. “Still using reverse psychology on me, Dr Lecter.”

Hannibal sounded amused when he replied, “I just know your stubborn streak.”

Will frowned, but when he looked down he saw that Hannibal’s grip had loosened on his own knife.

“And are you going to kill me, Dr Lecter?”

Hannibal hummed, “Not if it means we can talk.”

“Well, that is our speciality.”

There was a moment of silence, and stillness, and neither of them moved their blades away.

“At the same time?” Hannibal offered.

“You first,” Will said, “I can’t move back unless you do.”

“Then it is a good thing that I trust you at your word,” Hannibal said, and then the knife was gone, disappearing as quickly as it had appeared, back under the table.

Will let out a breath that he hadn’t known he had been holding, and as promised, moved his own knife away. He immediately backed up and away from Hannibal, putting distance between them, guarded, as Hannibal put down the paper, stood from his chair and turned to face him.

"I notice that you are still wearing your ring," Hannibal observed.

Will automatically rubbed his ring and middle fingers together to feel the familiar, cool bump of metal between them. It was a force of habit.

"Force of habit," Will voiced aloud. "Keeping it on." He glanced quickly down at Hannibal's hand and back up again. Hannibal was still wearing his ring, too.

“Where are the dogs?” Hannibal asked lightly.

“Nearby.”

“I have missed them, you know,” Hannibal said. “I have missed you.”

Will studied Hannibal’s face. It looked exactly the same as the last time he had seen it, but also somehow entirely different. Will’s gaze trailed from Hannibal’s sharp cheekbones to the dark of his eyes, to the proud jut of his jaw, to the unruly mess of his long fringe. Will was frustrated to admit it, but he had missed Hannibal too. He had missed him fiercely.

Because no, Will had not come here to kill Hannibal. He knew full well that it was to see his face again. To be near him again. Will was loath to admit it, but that was the truth of it. He had missed the man he loved. But he also wanted to punish the man he loved, because the man he loved had done some terrible things in Will’s absence to spite him, just like he had always done.

“I saw what you did,” Will said, accusing, “That British man that looked just like me? I know what you did, and I know why you did it.”

Hannibal did not look the least ashamed, the least cowed. “I was angry.”

“So you went out and found the closest person you could that looked like me, and decided to do to him what you really wanted to do to me.”

“No,” Hannibal said immediately, “I would not kill you in that way. You would deserve much better. That was an act of mindless vengeful anger, but it was not technically against you. It was my anger unleashed on a victim.”

“A victim that looked like me.”

“He looked a little like you.”

Will eyed Hannibal suspiciously, flexed his fingers on his knife, “Did it turn you on? Doing that to a man that looked like me?”

Hannibal looked appalled, “Will. That is not at all appropriate.”

“No? Says he who gets off on the dominance of being the hunter of others?”

Hannibal’s eyes narrowed a fraction, and Will knew that Hannibal knew that Will was trying to rile him up. “And what did you think, when you saw the murder in the news?”

Will sniffed, “That you had finally made an untidy piece.”

If Will was being honest, that was actually something of a mistruth.

He had known the moment he had heard of the body found in the catacombs at Naples that it would be Hannibal’s work. It did not phase him that Hannibal had already hunted without him, because he had only hours since finished his own piece in Turin. He _had_ been angry, however, when he had found out that the body looked so much like him, that the authorities were half-convinced it was, in fact, him. Firstly, Will had wondered how on earth Hannibal had been able to so quickly find a man that was, apparently, the spitting image of him, and secondly, he had been struck with the fury at knowing that Hannibal had mutilated a man as though that was what he had wanted to do to Will. Will had been seething in contempt at Hannibal and all that he had done. Hannibal had mutilated Will and Will’s loved ones in the past, and the murder of that man symbolised to Will in that moment that Hannibal was still capable of doing it to him. Because surely Hannibal had been imagining Will at his mercy, and not the actual victim as he carved into him.

But these had only been initial thoughts that plagued him for an hour or two, because then images of the murder had found their way onto secure networks, which Will knew how to hack (a skill Hannibal had taught him, but Will refused at that moment to recognise). And Will saw Hannibal’s creation with his own eyes, and his fury had doused considerably. He had heard reporters call the murder scene grotesque and horrendous, but as he stared at the pictures, at a body that did very much resemble his own, and was indeed heavily mutilated, he found himself unable to see the grotesque. Will had seen countless murder scenes that disturbed him, frightened him, but he knew Hannibal’s work so well by that point that he had not thought it appalling at all. Will also knew, then, by looking at Hannibal’s creation, that this murder was not so much aimed at Will’s person, but was instead a message to him. The body was partly shadowed, framed by the darkness, giving it wings of shade. The feet barely grazing the items beneath them; antler, bone, the broken neck of a cello, honeycomb, mushrooms…Will was impressed with how much Hannibal had gathered whilst still remaining discreet about his shrine of vengeful fury. Because that was what it was, a shrine to Will; the one who left, created with bitterness and regrets. Will knew, because that was what had fuelled Will in creating his Wendigo.

The media had been stirring up public horror, with the horrific, confusing scene in the catacombs. None of them had understood the message, but then, Will supposed the message was not for them. Will saw it, and he understood it. In fact, it was the easiest crime scene that Will had ever had to decipher, not through aid of his empathy, but because he already knew the killer so intimately (and wasn’t the knowledge of that something that would have driven Will-of-old even deeper into the depths of his own self-doubt). Will could read the creation like reading a book; it wasn’t a gory death for the sake of it, it was so much more than that. Yes, it was true that Will had seen finer works by Hannibal, ones that Hannibal had spent time planning and deliberating over. This was spontaneous and rushed in comparison. But Hannibal was a master at his craft, and so even this piece, which was untidier than others, was still beautiful. And this piece revealed something that many of Hannibal’s other more precise, clean-cut creations did not. It revealed feeling. Hannibal was feeling betrayed by Will, and Will was miles away, looking at pictures of Hannibal’s message, and finding it difficult to be so disgusted by the mutilated spitting image of himself, when the raw message that it was sending hit him with such strength.

Will was dragged away from the body in the catacombs and back to the room, as Hannibal laughed, apparently in agreement, “True, it was not my best work. Not in the least.” Hannibal’s eyes glittered. “Not like your work, however. Yours, Will, yours was a masterpiece. It rather took my breath away.”

“Taking your breath away was rather the concept.”

Hannibal’s eyebrow quirked, “I understood the reference to me. I know of the creature you once saw in my stead, but I had never had the privilege to see it with my own eyes. It was wonderful to see its likeness in the flesh and bone, even if I could only view it through the pictures posted on the internet. I wish I had been able to see such a beautiful piece of art in person.”

Will blinked, stunned, “You…you liked it?”

Hannibal looked surprised, “Of course I did. How could I not? It was elegant, the design simple yet powerful. It gave the piece a sense of quiet, calm solitude; the lone figure - the cannibalistic creature - in the centre of the room, gazing at a grand painting of dogs bringing down a mighty stag. It was quite peculiar for me to behold, as I found myself feeling like I was in fact looking at myself. But that was your intention, was it not? To depict me as you once saw me, and also to depict me as alone and failing at what I hoped to achieve. It sends a powerful message, it makes a powerful picture. It made mine look positively crude,” Hannibal’s face softened, and he stepped forward, closing the space between them, and his lips played around a charming smile, “I said it once, long ago, that with all my knowledge and intrusion, that I could never entirely predict you. And even now, years later, with more personal knowledge of you than I could ever have hoped for, I still cannot truly predict you, and you can still surprise me, so spectacularly.”

Hannibal sounded so fond, that Will found himself as flattered as he always was when Hannibal praised him so highly, spoke of him with such grand devotion. But there was still the memory of their argument pushing at the back of his mind, taunting him and reminding him of the reasons he had left Hannibal in the first place.

“But you are bored of me,” Will said, and he hated how small his voice sounded, “You got bored with me so you were putting me in harm’s way just to see me get hurt, to make things interesting for you again.”

“That is not true,” Hannibal closed the gap between them, his hands circling Will’s wrists in a gentle hold, ignoring the blade still in Will’s grip. “You jumped to conclusions, and I did not jump quickly enough to my defence, to explain to you the truth. I let my anger get the better of me, and I said things that I should not have done.”

Will looked up at Hannibal’s face in amazement, “Is this Hannibal Lecter admitting he was wrong about something?”

“I have been wrong many times in my life,” Hannibal corrected, his dark, warm gaze searching Will’s face. “Mostly about you. Will you give me a moment to explain my actions?”

Will assessed Hannibal’s expression, and nodded. He wanted to know. He wanted to know why Hannibal had been purposefully careless in order for Will to be stabbed. He wanted to know if Hannibal had done it because he had not found Will interesting anymore. He wanted to know why Hannibal had said the things he had said. He wanted to know so that he could know if he wanted to return home. Return to Hannibal.

“It was not so much of my growing tired of you,” Hannibal insisted, “And more my fears of you growing tired of me.”

Will frowned, “You think I am growing tired of you?”

“A chrysalis that had been nurtured and cared for finally flourished. The outcome is beautiful, magnificent, but is ultimately beyond me. You grew bold and beautiful and independent. Your need for your nurturer grew less, I could see it. And I found that I did not care for it. I thought that maybe you had grown so much that one day you would believe you had outgrown me.”

Realisation hit Will instantly, “You wanted me to still need you, depend on you. By seeing me injured I would still require your care, your protection.”

Hannibal’s gaze dropped momentarily, which was one of the biggest displays of Hannibal being out of his depth than Hannibal’s normally-perfect poise would ever allow through.

“I suppose that is the essence of it, yes. I was concerned that you would want to leave, if you had felt you could flourish away from me. And then you did leave me.”

Will frowned, “Yes, but that was your fault. You pushed me away, and then didn’t push me out of the way of getting injured. You said some terrible things to me.”

“I know,” Hannibal admitted, “And I am sorry,” His thumb smoothed its way over Will’s wrist. “I hope that you can forgive me.”

“I will,” Will said, and he meant it, “Eventually. I will forgive you for the things you said, eventually. Just like I forgave you for all the other things you have done to me. Just like you forgave me.” Will looked down and twisted his wrists out of Hannibal’s grip, dropping the knife on the floor between them.

When he looked back up, Hannibal was watching him closely, his gaze wandering down to Will’s lips and then back up to meet Will’s eyes. “You came back to me.”

Will hummed quietly, pulling backwards several steps, not wanting Hannibal to win him back so easily. Hannibal frowned at him a moment, before he looked down at the blade on the floor.

“Are you not going to kill me, Will Graham?”

Will let the quiet question hang in the air between them. They both knew that he was not there to kill Hannibal, or the knife would still be in his hand, he would have attempted to do it already. But he did not want Hannibal to think himself so easily forgiven, even if all Will wanted to do in that moment was to kiss him, and have Hannibal hold him in his arms, to feel like he had returned home.

Will sent Hannibal a carefully-structured nonchalant smile, “Why would I want to kill you, Dr Lecter,” He murmured, delivering the words slowly, airily, “Whilst I still find you interesting?”

Almost immediately, Hannibal grinned at him, sharp incisors glinting as it bared his teeth. It was terribly attractive and attractively terrible. Just like Hannibal always was.

Hannibal took a measured step closer to him again, and Will did not back away this time, but he also did not want Hannibal to dictate the reunion, so Will closed the rest of the gap between them. He hauled Hannibal closer to him the moment he was in arm’s reach, hands fisted in the front of Hannibal’s shirt. He pulled him so close that eventually there were only mere millimetres between their lips. But then Will stalled, testing.

Hannibal was watching him back, dark eyes curious, and also somewhat relieved, Will thought. It was that look on Hannibal’s face, the look of cautious gladness that Hannibal was displaying at Will’s return, that made Will’s final decision for him.

Will’s gaze followed Hannibal’s lips parting, and then suddenly they were kissing, hungry and passionate, after three weeks away from each other; the longest time they had spent apart since they had killed Francis Dolarhyde together.

Hannibal slid one hand up into Will’s hair, and Will did likewise, smoothing his fingers around the back of Hannibal’s neck.

“I have missed you so,” Hannibal said, as they parted for breath.

“And I missed you,” Will said, “It was why I came back.”

Will knew that he was probably forgiving Hannibal too quickly, but the urge to be back at Hannibal’s side was stronger at that moment than his pride. He wanted Hannibal too much to resist him. And he found himself struggling to care. He captured Hannibal’s lips again, tracing Hannibal’s sharp cheekbone with his thumb. Hannibal parted his lips, and Will did not hesitate to taste Hannibal again, to remind himself of home.

“Hannibal,” Will mumbled eventually, against Hannibal’s mouth. He opened his eyes to see dark ones watching him back, “I need to go and get the dogs.”

“Where did you leave them?”

“A couple of miles off.”

Hannibal pulled away, frowning, suspicious, “Why did you do that?”

“I wanted to see if I could catch you off guard. We have already established that I really didn’t,” Will reluctantly pulled away, “I still need to improve. I need you to teach me.”

Hannibal smiled a slow smile, pleased, “I would be happy to play mentor, if you promise to make me a masterpiece as beautiful as the one in Turin.”

“I would be delighted,” Will said, “But I may not take your demise as my inspiration, next time.”

“I would not mind, to be truthful, if it causes creation such as that. I suppose it should not be my favourite of your pieces, but I would be lying if I said it wasn’t.”

“You are a narcissist, that is why,” Will told him, “You love that it was about you.”

Hannibal clucked his tongue, “Rude.” But his tone held no heat, and he was smirking.

Will held out his hand, “Want to take a walk? We can pick the dogs up together and drive back.”

Hannibal immediately reached out to take it, “How could I refuse such an offer?”

***

Will woke up, sweaty and sticky, sometime in the night. He looked down at the top of Hannibal’s head. The older man had wrapped himself around Will’s body, his head resting on Will’s chest.

They had picked up the dogs and the car, and had returned to the house. The walk and drive back had given Will further time to reflect on Hannibal’s apologies, and on the motives of Hannibal’s actions that had suddenly been made clear. He had asked him about it, when they were alone once again.

But talk had quickly turned to action; after three weeks apart, the pair of them were feeling a hunger of a different kind.

They were a clash of skin and hands and tongues. They had moved to the bedroom, and Will knew he would not be leaving Hannibal again, or his bed again, not for a long time. They would have to be forced apart by a greater force, because Will was not going to leave Hannibal again.

“You must never, ever, do that to me again,” Hannibal had whispered in his ear as he fucked him, “You understand that, don’t you?”

“Why not?” Will had asked, breath hitching with each thrust, twisting his fingers tight in Hannibal’s hair as he felt teeth graze his collar bone.

Will had been ready to chastise Hannibal for being possessive, about to tell Hannibal that he was still walking on the thin ice of tentative forgiveness, and not to push his luck, but all Hannibal said was “Because I missed you.”

Will had stilled them, feeling Hannibal inside him, Hannibal’s blown-pupiled eyes staring down at him, and Will had kissed Hannibal’s cheekbone, his nose, his mouth. “I am not leaving you again.”

Will looked down at Hannibal now, sleeping soundly, and he lifted a hand, placing it high on Hannibal’s ribcage, before running his hand down, feeling the ridges of each rib rise and fall under his fingers.

Hannibal stirred, his eyes like slits of dark flint when he opened them and looked up at him, “Will?”

“I was just thinking about something,” Will said.

Hannibal made a noise of question, and shifted, turning over more fully so that he could look up at Will drowsily, lying half on top of him, their legs tangled. Hannibal’s hair was too long, it fell in strands into his eyes.

Will smiled at him, wondering how someone who looked so innocent and charming in that moment could be the creator so much destruction, death and chaos. How he could feel so much love for this man, the man that had mutilated someone that looked just like him, because he was upset that Will had left him. How he could love him regardless. But then, Will had also made his own masterpiece to spite Hannibal in turn.

“What is it?” Hannibal asked, his voice was accent-thick with sleepiness, and Will fondly brushed the hair away from Hannibal’s eyes.

“You always say that our creations are masterpieces, works of art.”

“Because that is what they are, for the most part.”

“Do you think people will ever think of us as artists?”

Hannibal laughed quietly into Will’s skin, his hand smoothing absently over Will’s thigh. “Rather than cannibalistic murderers, you mean?”

“Yes.”

“Unfortunately, I do not think people are so appreciative of our good taste.”

“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder,” Will surmised.

“Our eyes see more than others can. Differently to others can.”

Will ran his fingers through Hannibal’s hair as he debated this. “Our eyes that can see so differently.”

Eyes that could see a Wendigo, sitting in the quiet, observing a piece of art, and think it beautiful. Eyes that could see a body in a catacomb, standing above the memories of all the horrors that had helped transform him, and see so much more than the ordinary eye would ever interpret. Others would look at those scenes and be disgusted, frightened, horrified.

But not them. Because they had quite a different view of what true art could be. How beautiful those moments, those masterpieces could be.

Will wondered what would come next for them, once they tired of travelling Europe. Because as much as they could tire of the place and the pace, he was determined for them not to question each other again. Inevitably they would, in the end, grow impatient here, as they had grown impatient on the run in the US.

He had the fragile beginnings of an idea taking root in his mind, something that he was eager to share with Hannibal. It was an idea of a new game that they could play, when the time was right, and it was their eyes, that could see so differently, which would help them master the direction and bend the rules.  They would have to be certain, before they agreed to start play, as to which pieces to put into action and which parts to set into motion. Hannibal would know. He was the expert. The victor. The master, mentor and tormentor.

But they could not start any new game without knowing that the outcomes would be favourable, and that they would, at the end of it all, come out on top and carry on, just the two of them.

Will had considered trying to continue without Hannibal, in those few weeks apart, but he had not liked it. The thrill and the rush was not the same when it was not shared with Hannibal. He had merely felt bitter and alone. He had found himself floundering without his partner. He had found himself missing the man he loved.

So he had come back, and their next moves would be made as team. They would be made together, because together they could achieve the greatest and most elaborate masterpieces of all.

And their best work was still to come.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you all very much for reading. I hope you enjoyed this story!
> 
> This story also acts as a set-up of sorts for the last part of the Mentor Tormentor series, which I am so excited to write!
> 
> Thank you for the comments, kudos and bookmarks, they are greatly appreciated and cherished.


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